Things That Happened.

Last I left you, my dedicated @#%! friends, I was very pregnant and a little angry.

Rest assured, eight weeks later, I am no longer pregnant! Mini B

*throws confetti*

You may have already known that if you follow my instagram or facebook, and if you don’t, well you should be because then you wouldn’t have been waiting two months with bated breath for this press release.

Adding a tiny new member to the family was an easier transition than expected, although it helped immensely that Little A started part-time preschool so he’s out of the house three mornings a week.

*throws more confetti* holding

I also had a steady stream of help in the way of grandmas and paternity leave so I was rarely left unattended to deal with the two mini hell-raisers. But that’ll change next week

Please send bourbon.

The birth-by-induction was a wee bit harder than the first but I’ll tell you all about that someday. She’s here, she’s growing, she’s starting to smile for realsies and she’s pretty @$^$!@# awesome. I don’t even hate pink as much as I expected to.

I need to knock the dust of this old blog thing. Anything you’re interested in reading from me? I need ideas, otherwise you’ll get a whole lot of MY BABY IS CUTE SO SUCK ON THAT.

And I think I can be more interesting than that.




The Birthing: Part Four

Time to play catch up before the culmination if you haven’t stopped by yet this week.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Abridged Version

HEADS UP. This one gets a little personal. Possibly gross, depending on your delicate sensibilities.

Sorry to say there is no Big A commentary on this one, if you’ve been enjoying his input. He said he had nothing to add and that this was my story even though he was THERE. And this being, in fact, HALF HIS KID, TOO. But whatever. He did say it looked like my vagina was blowing a bubble. There is that. But he didn’t want to tell y’all that. But I just did. I have zero shame.

Part Four

It’s Go Time.

I am in position. They are giving me instructions. I’m trying not to flip out. OB tells me that on the next contraction, we’ll do a practice round.

I practice push. And the OB’s eyes sort of bug out. Because apparently I don’t practice. I just $#^@ing go for it. And that practice push became my first real I’M HAVING A BABY WTF push.

One, two, three. four, five, six. No vacuum needed.

JUST THAT FAST. We are now the proud owner of a newborn.

Six minutes. Six pushes. Three contractions. Apparently a little poo.


Apologies if that’s anti-climactic. It is what it is. I can’t help that he whooshed on out of there.

Six pounds, nineteen inches, a tiny little thing with a big head and chubby cheeks.

He was healthy, pink, screaming and scored a 9 on that Apgar scale thing, already an overachiever. He also lacked that ugly newborn look and was NOT A CONEHEAD. He got bonus points for those things. I may have sent him back otherwise.

Just minutes old. Hard to believe that was living in me.

They put the cheesy, sticky thing on my chest, Big A cut the cord (they called the cord “chewy” and for whatever reason, that cracked my $^@& up). I was tired and confused and hungry and emotional and overwhelmed and I found it hard to open my eyes to look at him. This being that had been making my body his home for months was now a part of the real world. MY world. OUR world. I wasn’t sure what to expect and I had thought so much about what he would look like that I almost couldn’t look at him.

The nurse asked me if I had even seen him yet.

I said I had. Briefly. And then admitted babies freaked me out.

And they laughed at me. This was becoming a theme.

As the OB was stitching me up – because while there was no episiotomy, there was a significant tear that I definitely was not aware of because I really couldn’t feel feelings – she kept telling me she couldn’t believe how fast that went and that I was designed to have babies. And even in that moment I totally agreed with her. And was already thinking about the second one.

She took that opportunity to remind me that breastfeeding was not birth control.

So why do people complain about this!? Pregnancy, labor AND delivery were all a giant piece of cake! (Note: Dudes, I totally know I got off beyond easy.) I was willing to go through all that @#%^ again in a hot minute. I loved being pregnant. Loved. What I wasn’t sure about was actual motherhood. I was sure I wanted cake.

The nurse started to chime in, telling me that I did awesome and she wasn’t just saying that to be nice. I began to wonder if I had set a new hospital record or something. I’m sure I chuckled but I was still in a deep haze of confusion. I was also trying not to think about what a mangled mess my underworld probably was.

I asked if I could eat. Food was a definite priority here. I got laughed at again.

I happened to look down and was shocked to see the lack of the bump I had grown so fond of. Well, DUH. I was warned that I probably shouldn’t let the other new moms in recovery see me as I seemed to lack the I-was-just-pregnant look. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for being awesome and basked in all these accolades.

See, he got cuter already! Except for the crazy Vitamin K eye goo.

As everyone was finishing up their duties, I held Little A again before he was taken to the nursery and was told that the meds I was so delightfully enjoying would be cut and to take a few extra hits if necessary. So I did. You know, just in case. I was also given a menu and I gleefully selected the first food I would shove in my facehole in over 18 hours.

My desired food after 18 hours without? Chicken Alfredo, Onion Rings, Apple Pie, Coke. WHAT. DON’T JUDGE ME.

I can’t feel my legs, I have an ice pack in my underwear, I’m exhausted, I am ravenous, I am suddenly svelte again.

And I have a baby.


And I Get to Keep Him?

So it’s been a week, but Little A, the !@$#! Baby, arrived on June 25! Unlike his procrastinator parents, he decided to not follow my instructions and came nearly two weeks early. Between the drugs and the crying and the diapers and the feedings and the 60+ hour power outage and heat wave, I just couldn’t sit down long enough to post this. But look at this face, how am I supposed to get anything done?!

In case you were not privy to the live updates, here’s how it all went down on social media:

Stay tuned, there is plenty more to come. It’s going to be a wild ride!

Push Out Baby. Get Present.

“Push Presents” – both the term and the actual gifting – crack my shit up. Unfamiliar with this practice? Let me fill you in. Typically in Push Present Scenarios, Husband buys Wife a gift for birthing their child. FOR BIRTHING THEIR %^&#@! CHILD.

If a he doesn’t produce a present, will the mom-to-be clench up and hold the baby in until he buys her a treat?! I would certainly hope not, but some women are %!#$%ing determined. And what if the woman ends up having a c-section? Does he get to take the push present back because, well, she doesn’t deserve it since she didn’t actually push?

The baby and not being pregnant any longer and the upcoming opportunity to explore non-maternity clothing and beer should be the gift. THE NEW BABY SHOULD BE YOUR PUSH PRESENT. And beer. Beer helps with breastfeeding. And it’s delicious. Count that as a bonus present. With a giant entree of YOU JUST HAD A BABY.

What is that, a carat? Pssh, try again, buddy. I can wait.

It’s the entitlement of some women that just gets me. The expectation that she deserves presents upon delivery. That because SHE carried this baby around for nine months and SHE had to deal with all the symptoms and pain and SHE had to push it out of HER body that SHE should get a %^!$! present. Umm, hate to break it to you honey, but that’s what your body was sort of designed to do and women worldwide have lived to tell the tale for eons without a new pair of diamond earrings. Also, judging by your entitlement, I bet YOUR husband had to put up with YOUR shit and YOUR whining and YOUR bitching and if anyone deserves a present it’s HIM. YOU probably deserve a punch in the face.

And it isn’t just little things desired as push presents, like a knick knack with baby’s monogram or a little bauble with the kid’s birthstone. Nope. It’s EPIC THINGS. Diamond studs, new wedding ring settings, tennis bracelets, designer bags, etc. Usually nothing relevant to the baby at all. This is all about Mom’s Journey into Motherhood and the Expensive Gift to Represent It. Seriously. WTF.

I feel sorry for the child who will have to grow up in that type of entitled atmosphere. Except they won’t even notice because those raised in that environment tend to be of the “Special Snowflake” variety who cry if they don’t get a trophy for coming in last. BUT THAT’S A WHOLE OTHER POST.

Will I turn down a present if presented upon presentation of Little A? No. Of course not. I’m not an idiot. I like presents. But am I expecting one? Aside from the bedside post-delivery Manhattan, not at all. I can’t even be facetious and make up a wish list to post here. That’s how dumb I think this new “tradition” really is.

Although I have wanted an emerald cut diamond solitaire pendant for about ten years…

Parenting According to Big A

So I’m a little hopped up on (approved) cold meds and fruit juice and was just energetically ranting and raving to Big A about all the stuff we have to do and learn in a short time. Having never really dealt with babies and hearing a lot of semi-horror stories, I was not buying into his tale of all-they-do-is-eat-sleep-and-poop. BUT WHAT IF I DROP HIM OR MESS HIM UP SOME HOW?

His cool-headed response?

“You know how many idiots raise babies? All we have to do is keep it alive. He won’t be a douche because we aren’t douchebags.”

Words to parent by. Thanks, honey. I feel better already.